


hotel motel

by palalavras



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Crack, M/M, One Shot, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Prostitution, Ridiculous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-17
Updated: 2018-01-17
Packaged: 2019-03-05 20:30:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13395666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/palalavras/pseuds/palalavras
Summary: “Are you for real? There is a guy bleeding out on this nice motel floor right now and you’re throwing out cheesy one liners? Who are you? ARE YOU FOR REAL?”"I’m the guy with his dick in your ass.” Rogers dimpled.“Wow, real smooth.”





	hotel motel

**Author's Note:**

> I cried inside thinking my trashterpiece had been lost to deletion but it has been saved by forces larger than myself. 
> 
> Lo, there is a God and he wants me to write smutty fan fiction. 
> 
> Enjoy ;*

Bucky thought that it would get old, that it would get boring. That he wouldn’t shoot off like a first time preteener rocket every time.  
  
He had, of course, been wrong.  
  
He was currently face down, ass up in a nondescript motel room. Rogers was a high up government official as far as he could tell, so the locations always fell just outside enough of Capitol Hill to be discreet but far enough west of the river that they didn’t get mugged in the parking lot. Plus Rogers was usually generous in that when finished, he let Bucky have the room for the rest of the night. He had to avoid rolling in a puddle of his own spunk but it was worth it, he got all the trashy cable TV his little heart desired. Rogers was definitely one of his favorite clients.  
  
Okay. His favorite if he were being honest. Bucky sometimes wondered why Rogers sought him out, why someone who was clearly successful, like splurge at Deluca successful, and hung like a horse couldn’t find a steady partner or stream of one night stands. You know, for free. But Mr. Huge and Blonde usually showed up in perfectly tailored slacks or dressed like a Nike sponsor so he could probably afford hookers. Probably higher end ones than him that could afford to live in Georgetown and like, wear lined coats in the winter.  
  
(Bucky liked Georgetown and at least there his shaggy hair and general unkemptness made him seem more like a wandering TA than a homeless person. Which he wasn’t. He’d only slept at the Jefferson memorial the one time, okay?)  
  
Maybe Rogers’ 80 hour work only allowed for these lunch trysts, and what kind of men (or women?) would he find in a bar at 13:30 on a Tuesday? Maybe he was abusive, or boring, or a terrible boyfriend and worse conversationalist. Maybe he didn’t want to form any attachments. Maybe he married his high school sweetheart and had 2.5 kids and a golden retriever. Maybe paying for a quick fuck was the only satisfaction he needed. Maybe he just liked Bucky’s style (yeah, keep dreaming kiddo). Whatever his reason, Bucky was happy to help. Guys like Rogers, the perfect storm of All American Golden Boy and barely suppressed rage who fucked like they were born to, didn’t come around very often.  
  
Or ever. Maybe he should get him a card? “Thank You For Being The Best Fuck”, “You Toot My Horn, You’re A Dreamboat”.  
  
On days like these Bucky wanted to offer him a back rub. Something to smooth the tense lines of his back when he bent over to put his shoes on, usually ten minutes after the shoes were taken off. He never did though. They were domestic like that. Except for the fact that Bucky was paid for sex and Rogers was probably heavily involved in orchestrating foreign coups. If Rogers was even his real name.  
  
At current, his face was mashed into the starched motel sheets and making a drool spot, which would be embarrassing if he could care. Rogers hooked two sets of fingers in his hole, pulled slowly apart, ghosted breath over the pucker. Bucky did not mewl or cant into the bed. No he didn’t, because he was a professional. He imagined that Rogers would like to eat him out, might have had a fisting fetish, but there were lines they didn’t cross. They still hadn’t kissed. By all accounts, aside from the furiousness of the fucking and occasional come play (Bucky’s only), things were pretty vanilla. Rogers swiveled his fingers around and curled both sets in, stroking right on the edges of his prostate. Bucky shuddered violently so Rogers did it again, until Bucky had clutched blindly at a pillow and stuffed his face into it. Still holding him open, Rogers nudged the fat head of his cock just inside of his rim, condom squelching.  
  
“Tell me if this is too much,” Rogers said in a low voice somewhere behind his shoulder. Bucky could only groan. The edges of his vision were starting to white out and fizzle with the pain and pleasure from being stretched just a shade past possible. The first few times Rogers had offered to open him up but realized quickly that Bucky liked just shy of a painful stretch. Not that Bucky’s satisfaction really mattered in this line of work but Rogers seemed to enjoy pleasing him.  
  
There may have been tears gathering at the edges of his eyes but his face was a mix of too many fluids to tell. Behind him he heard Rogers readjusting, taking momentary reprieve of pounding his ass to decide how he’d next debauch the subject beneath him. Bucky was ass up, hands clutching the sheets, turning his face sideways to breathe in some fresh air. He could feel lube leaking out of his hole and down his left thigh. Rogers was brutally efficient in all things but Bucky liked a little mess. If he weren’t in this line of work he’d ask Rogers to fill him, to come over his back and hole and ass and pound it in, then turn him over and jerk off over his dick and stomach and face and rut in it for good measure. Bucky was a kinky fuck like that. But Bucky was also not about to risk his health for some jizz, even if it was provided by hotter-than-the-sun, maybe-assassin John Doe Rogers.  
  
Bucky thought he was lucky to be smashed nose first into the duvet. Then at least he didn't have to see the magical, and dare he say, sensual hip rolling he felt in every precise thrust. He was so thick but Bucky's hole swallowed him entirely, hungrily. The tip of his cock nudged his prostate every other pounding and if Bucky had a mirror (like a large version of the dentist mirror) and could watch the All American dick splitting him open, he'd come instantly, painting the sheets with an embarrassing amount of jizz.  
  
But maybe Rogers read his mind a little (he didn't whip out a mirror unfortunately) because the next instant he found himself flipped and riding dick like a rodeo star.  
  
Bucky loved and hated this position. He got to feel up Rogers' massive, endless chest but then he also had to avoid staring into his eyes and falling a little in love like some high school girl before she realized teenage boys were selfish and terrible lovers.  
   
Bucky heard a rustling behind him.  
  
Correction. Bucky heard nothing, on account of Rogers' dick in his ass. His wonderful, magical, all American dick that was making tiny thrusts just shy of his prostate—Rogers was a tease, don’t let the face fool you-- stopped and he gazed laser beams at a point somewhere beyond Bucky’s shoulder. He jostled Bucky slightly as he leaned to peel a gun-- when had that gotten there? Bucky really needed to pay more attention– from the side of the mattress and what the fuck into a stranger by the bed.  
  
Wait what.  
  
“Don’t worry, he’s not dead.”  
  
WAIT WHAT. There was currently a man-sized masked intruder in all black gear (how cliché) clutching himself and gargling incoherently by the nightstand. Had he decided to attack Rogers after getting off (how considerate)? Had he been creeping in the bathroom this whole damn time?  
  
“The flying fuck, Rogers?”  
  
Rogers leaned against the headboard, eyes closed and a smirk on his face, one hand behind his head and the other resting on Bucky’s hip.  
  
“You seem awfully nonchalant for just popping a guy.” Bucky would laugh hysterically, if he wasn’t shocked. And that was saying something. Bucky had once been a host at a very gay BDSM party for a "Family Values" senator.  
  
Said shot guy was rolling around and moaning on the floor. What was his life. What.  
  
“Hey,” called Rogers over the side of the bed, “I want to finish what I started so shut up for a few minutes. Then I’m calling the cleanup crew.”  
  
“Are you for real? There is a guy bleeding out on this nice motel floor right now and you’re throwing out cheesy one liners? Who are you? ARE YOU FOR REAL?”  
  
“I’m the guy with his dick in your ass.” He dimpled.  
  
“Wow, real smooth.”  
  
Rogers rolled his hips and Bucky clenched unintentionally. What did that say about him? There was an assassin maybe dying two feet away from him and he… didn’t really care.  
  
“Hey,” Rogers voice turned sharp, “I said stay the fuck down or I’ll blow out your other knee.”  
  
The command went straight to his dick. And that was all she wrote.  
  
“Really? That gets you off?” Bucky had an excellent retort that unfortunately, came out as a silent moan as he came all over Rogers’ chest. They weren’t even moving for Christ’s sake.  
  
“Fuck… you, Rogers. I deserve a cake for this shit.” He lay panting against Rogers’ impossibly solid chest, the threat somehow less menacing.  
  
“Nnghh,” reminded the Ninja Turtle from somewhere to his left.  
  
“The fuck did I tell you?” Rogers, still somehow amazingly hard inside him, relocated the gun, leaned over the edge of the bed and—holy fuck his life—pistol whipped the poor man. Without dislodging Bucky, his dick, any perfectly styled blonde hair on his head.  
  
Somewhere along the way, Bucky had been cursed into being wildly attracted to the worst people. If Natasha were here she’d laugh at him. And probably make out with Rogers, because she’s a cruel bitch. Fucking beautiful people, he swears. But he loves her, because she’s the fucking worst. But also the best. Maybe she’ll buy him a cake when he tells her this story.  
  
Because Bucky likes terrible people, he spurts another glob onto Rogers’ chest. Christ.  
  
Rogers swung his open wide baby blues back to Buck, deceivingly guileless.  
  
“Did I do that?” Rogers shrugged his ridiculous shoulders, slightly jiggling his dick, reminding them of the (other) task at hand.  
  
“Did you just quote Erkel? Oh my god. You fucking nerd.” He was somehow, more aroused.  
  
Fucking terrible people. His life, Jesus H. Christ.  
  
“Well this nerd is going to show you the money.”  
  
“No. Just no with these references.”  
  
“Oh you want me to stop?” He ceased circling his hips in those tiny delicious, over sensitive little circles.  
  
“NO! Or whatever. Customer’s choice.”  
  
“Oh well in that case…”  
  
Rogers, the hulking monster he is, roughly flipped them back to their original position, heads facing opposite of the headboard. Bucky almost cared that two motionless feet were in his line of sight. Did Rogers get off on this a little? Holy shit. Horror should've curled through him but instead he just felt his stomach clench as his dick valiantly tried to get hard again.  
  
Rogers had one hand pulling his hair and the other bruising at his hip to hold him in place as his fat dick pushed rhythmically in and out. It was almost too much, having just come, having just maybe almost died, having an unruly dick that was twitching for more but almost hurting from overstimulation just around the back. But Bucky was a professional so instead he voiced his confusion as a mewl into the bed spread.  
  
The man barely breathed as his thrusting became more erratic. The hand in his hair moved to his other hip and he could feel the slap of balls against his ass. On a whim Bucky clenched hard at the thick cock squelching and breaking him open. Rogers stuttered then came, thrusting deeply four more times, only allowing himself a small groan. So quiet he might have imagined it. Somewhere in Bucky's haze he realized that Rogers needed a good dicking. The man was wound so tight and he had such a great ass and probably secretly wanted to be eaten out.  
  
Rogers had pulled out and tossed the condom. Bucky contemplated his new revelation, still ass up. Rogers was stepping over the maybe dead man to grab a wet towel. Bucky flopped over and thought some more. Rogers threw him a wet towel as he pulled his clothes back on which Bucky caught with his face.

His thoughts ended abruptly.  
  
"Ow," he mumbled from beneath the wet square.  
  
He allowed himself a few extra moments of darkness before he summoned the energy to roll off the bed and towards the haphazard pile of clothes by the door.  
  
Getting dressed at the same time felt wrong somehow, so Bucky faced a corner like dorm etiquette prescribed. He felt sweaty and his skin buzzed unpleasantly like he had had a couple beers.  
  
"And here's extra for another room. I know you usually stay and well," he glanced derisively at the motionless lump/assasssin, "and I'm guessing you don't like present company."  
  
Some might argue against that, quoting their dignity or something about not being a charity case. But Bucky really liked trash TV and room service. He was easy to please and he was hungry. And he might have been in shock but who cared.  
  
"And don't worry about this guy. He'll be taken care of." Rogers toed at the blob with his stiff leather shoe.  
  
Rogers hesitated, then his mouth landed in a territory just a little too sentimental. Bucky didn't say anything, couldn't say anything. Clients wanted affection all the time, wanted to be stepped on or cuddled or swaddled like a baby. Wasn't his place to judge what people needed. So Rogers kissed the edge of his jaw, east of his mouth but too close, too close, and Bucky didn't say anything, didn't move or reach for him, just kept his hands clutched in the secondhand jacket slung over his arm. And felt just a little like he was leaving for work. Like an I Love Lucy rerun on his shitty tube TV. Rogers straightened up and cleared his throat gruffly.  
  
"I've got to... stay here but next week?" He asked, looking down at his phone. Probably assembling a league of high tech black ops janitors.  
  
"Yeah, you know how to contact me. Just lemme know."  
  
"Okay." Rogers looked up with a small smile. Bucky might almost call it shy but that would be laughable. Especially considering Rogers just beat the shit out of someone. Speaking of which, what the fuck. He needed to call Natasha. But he also needed a BLT.  
  
Rogers shoved his probably-filled-with-state-secrets phone in his left back pocket, over his perfect ass cheek. _I hate to see her go but I love to watch her leave_...  
  
Rogers opened the heavy rusting door and ushered him out. Bucky didn't look back but heard the soft click.  
  
Alone, he briefly opened his sweaty hand where he had crinkled the stack of bills.

Holy shit.

There were definitely a few more hundos than usual. More than enough for a mediocre motel. Was it cover up money? Ha, joke's on you. Like Bucky had anyone to tell that would believe him. Plus no doubt Rogers could probably find him and snipe him within the hour. Oh well. YOLO, as the youths say.  
  
He could invite Natasha to sit in the big bed and steal chocolate covered strawberries off his tray while talking about boys but... it'd be much more fun to do it alone then rub her sharp little nose in it later.  
  
Bucky walked along the breezeway, not thinking about the probably-dead guy or that Rogers could pistol whip someone and stay hard or his monster dick or his little smile. Definitely not that. He was a professional, god dammit. So instead he walked along the breezeway thinking about trash TV and a full meal and clean sheets.  
  
If he was humming Rogers' ringtone, nobody had to know.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Wowza, your comments are bringing me back to life. Thank you, thank you! No sequel is currently planned but never say never. 
> 
> Glad this is bringing violent joy to so many readers ♡
> 
> (And 69 kudos.... heh.)


End file.
